


Picking Up

by ekingston



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-14
Updated: 2006-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekingston/pseuds/ekingston
Summary: Shit, it’s not like she doesn’t know. Your intentions aren’t the ones in question here. She can have either one of you; you’re as devoted to her as he is. But god damn it, she cannot have you both.





	Picking Up

She calls you very early in the morning, as always, pale orange light just peeking through the blinds of your bedroom window and you're having a hard time understanding why, if you know she’s made a habit out of this, you don’t just turn your phone off at night. One of these days, she’ll tell you she needs you. One of these days, it will be Grissom’s voice on the other end of the line.

"You know what," Sara says, her voice rough, "Sometimes being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be."

You turn over on your side, away from the window, and trace the stylized floral pattern on the sheet. You’re tired – you were dreaming of a winding road in Colorado, great clouds dotting a clear blue sky. You wonder why you left, sometimes, in favor of this filthy city where nobody ever says what they really mean. That’s not who you are, you think. That’s not the kind of person you want her to be.

"There are many different ways to interpret that sentence," you tell her, and the silence on the other end of the line tempts you to picture her momentarily stunned.

But Sara doesn’t sound surprised at all when she says, "Okay. Explain how you interpret it."

Shit, it’s not like she doesn’t know. Your intentions aren’t the ones in question here. She can have either one of you; you’re as devoted to her as he is. But god damn it, she can’t have you both.

"You know it can be good to spend some time alone sometimes," you tell her, hoping it stings. "Gives you time to think things over. Figure out what it is that you want."

"I know what I want," she says.

"Don’t start, Sara."

But it’s too late, isn’t it? This started a long time ago, and you hate her, occasionally, hate yourself most of the time, for getting into this knowing full well you’d never be able to finish it.

 

The evening sky over the suburbs of Las Vegas is still, quiet, as if it’s aware of what it has just witnessed, as if it knows the head of the graveyard shift of the Las Vegas CSI unit is otherwise occupied and it’s holding its breath, expecting someone to make a terrible mistake. Blue and red cut angrily through the darkness when you reach the outskirts of Summerlin, just before two on a Tuesday night. Uniformed officers flood the lawn in front of the crime scene. You already know who will be working tonight’s case: Sara, who is standing just outside the front door, talking to the first officer at the scene.

"What have we got so far?" you ask her after she’s dismissed the fidgeting young man with a bitter curving of her lips.

Sara meets your eye; an irritated look, but it may not be about you this time. "This crime scene’s a mess," she says. A couple of your fellow officers standing nearby look up, visibly startled by Sara's tone of voice. You place a hand on the back of her elbow – safe, inconspicuous, but you feel her tense up at the contact anyway – and lead her inside the house. "Show me."

The flashlight of Warrick's camera greets you when you enter the kitchen. The victim's body is positioned near the oak wood table, the arms neatly folded over the abdomen, the legs straightened, feet together. Even her hair seems to be combed back.

"Is this how she was found?" you ask, curious.

"No," Sara says, and her tone warns you that a storm is brewing.

"The body was found by the victim's daughter," Warrick says. "She’s a kid, Sara."

Sara gives him a look. "That's no excuse for what she did."

You take a couple of steps forward, then stoop over the body. "She cleaned her up."

Warrick steps up, raising his right hand to rub his neck. "The girl did what she thought was appropriate."

Sara's eyes are black. "Destroying evidence that could have led us to the person who did this."

Warrick looks at her as if he can't believe Sara doesn't understand. "Look," he offers, "Try to imagine what it feels like to be thirteen years old, finding your mother..."

Sara spins around, starts to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Warrick's face is innocent. He hasn't even begun to understand Sara's sensitivities and mood shifts. You feel sorry for him, but then you realize it’s like feeling sorry for yourself. Sara calls out something about preparing the preliminary sketches, and is gone.

 

Grissom’s been out of town all week, something about a seminar at Brown, and you’re guessing that’s the reason her calls have increased, and so has her drinking.

"He sent me his house keys in an envelope over the mail," she says. In the background, you hear the sound of a glass bottle being set down on a table or kitchen counter.

"It’s really early, Sara."

"The mail," she says. "Along with a note where he’s his usual, eloquent self."

A drink of some kind is poured – you hope it’s into a shot glass, but a coffee mug is probably a more accurate guess.

"'From Grissom'?" you try, and you listen to her chuckle, and here you are, the other woman, making fun of your lover’s boyfriend together. Sara is silent for a while after, but you can still hear her breathing.

"You make me remember," she says. "You won’t leave me alone."

You close your eyes. "You called me, Sara."

"Don’t do that," she breathes, her voice soft, hoarse. You remember, too; another time, when her voice sounded like this, and you didn’t just hear it – you felt it. Tasted it.

"I’m not –" You rise to pick up your alarm clock. "Sara, it’s eight am. We’ve both been up all night. Why don’t we –"

She hangs up the phone.

 

That night you walk into the trace analysis lab bearing two paper cups of hot coffee. Sara ignores you. She hasn’t called you back. Of course you did finally turn off your cell this morning.

"Prints?" you ask, have to ask, before she grants you a quick look of intense determination.

"You can’t bring that in here, Sofia," she says. "You should know better."

After you dispose of the cups – they were what, a peace offering? You return to the table, leaning in to take a closer look at the pieces of glass that are in front of her. "What's this?"

The movement is deliberate, but so subtle that for a moment you wonder if you imagined it. Sara has inched away, shifted so your shoulder is no longer touching hers. You straighten a little. Not hurt. Not confused. No.

"Warrick found a broken wine glass in the trash can," Sara explains, carefully lifting one of the fragments with tweezers and holding it up against the lamp. "We're hoping to find out who Mrs. Kent was drinking with before she died."

You squint at the piece of class shimmering against the artificial light. "We don't have much to go on, do we?"

Sara swipes a cotton tip by the side of the glass fragment. You both smile when it turns a clear pink. "Maybe we have enough."

A quiet whirring sound cuts through the moment, cuts right through Sara’s grin. You look at your phone’s display and resist the ridiculous urge to toss it aside. Your voice is in place again, casual and light, when you answer.

"I thought you left Catherine in charge this week," you greet Grissom, seeing Sara's eyes turn to you with red hot interest as she realizes who you’re talking to.

"Hello, Sofia," Grissom says pleasantly. "I just thought I'd check in and make sure everything is going okay."

"Hey yeah, uh." Sara’s glare burns on your face. "We’re fine, I mean, business as usual down here. How are they treating you at Brown? Having fun scaring the kids with stories of corruption and decay?"

It’s silent for a second at the other end of the line. Then he says, "Catherine says you have a homicide in the suburbs."

"Right, the Kent case. At Summerlin. Victim's a school teacher. We're on it." Kindly stop rambling, Curtis.

"Was there a young girl involved?" Grissom continues. His insistence is aggravating.

"Thirteen, I believe," you tell him. "Came home to find her mother murdered. How..."

"Who is working this case with you?" His voice is urgent now, and you’re beginning to think tossing the phone would have been a brilliant idea. When you look back at Sara, though, you see she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s listening in on your side on the conversation. She looks as if she’s anticipating something.

"Warrick is working with Brass. Sara's with me." You quickly add, "In Trace." God.

Another silence, longer this time. Sara isn't blinking.

"Look, this case doesn't seem too complicated," you tell Grissom. "Go get some rest, forget..."

"Sofia?"

"... about work for a couple of days. What?"

"Keep Sara away from the suspect once you think you've found them."

Your head spins. It’s like middle school geometry all over again. _Grissom and Sara, sitting in a tree. Along came Sofia, and now she’s seeing me. First comes lust, then betrayal, then she finds Grissom’s house keys in the mail._ And now Grissom’s conspiring with _you_ , going behind Sara’s back for some reason you're unable to understand.

You can't help but look at Sara, and when your eyes meet, you think that maybe it's panic you see in her eyes. You leave the lab, rushing through the doors. "What does Sara have to do with this?" you ask Grissom, lowering your voice after the doors have closed behind you.

"I'd also appreciate it if you tried to keep contact between her and the girl to an absolute minimum."

Anger flares up inside of your chest. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"I trust you will do this on behalf of the case," he simply says. "I will see you next week."

You exhale before sliding the phone back into your back pocket. When you look up, Sara is standing in front of you. You take in her tightly set shoulders, the visible traces of anxiety on her face.

"What did he want?" she asks, defiance burning right through her feigned indifference.

Nothing, nothing at all, you want to tell her. He says he trusts you. He says he trusts me. And then by one phone call, he proves that he was lying on both counts, and for all the wrong reasons, too. At least, that’s what you think. What if this is Grissom's way of telling you he’s on to you? 

You avoid Sara’s eyes. "Grissom says hi."

A frown is Sara's only reply, and you turn to leave.

Sara calls after you, "I forgot to say," but you don’t turn around.

"Sofia," she says. "Leave your fucking phone on."

 

It rings the minute you set foot in your house, as you're pushing the door open with your shoulder, carrying two paper bags full of groceries. It stops as soon as you've set them down. Shit. "Sara?" Shit.

It rings again when you've taken your shower. "It was on," you tell her. "Your timing is crap."

"So imagine you have this friend," she says.

You pull a couple of stray hairs from your dripping ponytail, gently guide them to the trash can. "Wow," you say, "I don’t know, that’s kind of difficult -"

"Shut up," she says. "Imagine you have this – particularly annoying co-worker."

"Hold on a minute," you interrupt her. "Is she attractive?"

"A _male_ co-worker," she emphasizes. "Imagine you’ve had this… infatuation with this male co-worker, for a long time -"

You snort. "That’s sort of a long shot."

She ignores you. "And one day he finally – one day you finally find yourself… involved with him."

"With this particularly annoying co-worker," you helpfully add.

She sighs, impatient. "Yes."

"And?"

"And, suddenly you’re wondering if, all those years, you had any idea of what it was you were wishing for."

You sigh. "Sara…"

"He didn’t call me tonight."

Jesus. What is she expecting you to do, apologize on his behalf? Quickly supply her with some reasonable explanation?

'He called you."

Oh. You could have known that would come up sooner or later. You take a deep breath. Say, blindly, "He was worried about you, Sara."

You can actually hear her grinding her teeth. "He told you to keep me out, didn't he?"

You exhale. "Yes."

"Did he tell you why?"

Damn her for making you admit that he didn't. You’re not sure of the part you're supposed to play here – lover, friend, third wheel. "No," You confess. "He didn't tell me why."

"Good." You don’t know why you're nodding, standing in the middle of your empty bedroom, a beautiful woman on the other end of the line charting out every reason why you can never be together again.

"Good," you tell the dial tone.

 

The lab is eerily quiet for this time of night. Empty offices bathe in bright blue light. When you pass the break room, you see Sara's tall, slender figure leaning against the coffee maker, pale fingers pressed against her brow. You slow down, staying in the shadows, before coming to a full stop just outside the doorway. You observe, much like you would observe a suspect in the interrogation room. It's never something you mean to do; it's an involuntary, practically subconscious habit. Now that you've caught Sara with her guard down, it's hard to look away. She looks exhausted, fragile, and somehow slightly out of focus.

When she finally straightens and walks over to the trash can to dispose of her coffee cup, you realize she has sensed you looking. You step into the light, but linger in the doorway. Sara refuses to acknowledge your presence. Her shoulders are tight again, her back to you like a silent insult. You watch as she walks to the refrigerator, opens it, looks inside.

"Did you want something?" she finally asks, turning around just enough to shoot you an impatient look.

"Hungry?" you say, cocking your brow to indicate the unopened cartons of Chinese food Sara has set out on the counter. Sara just shrugs.

"I should eat something myself," you lie, as you step into the break room and sit down in one of the chairs. Sara gathers up the cartons between her slender hands and sets them down on the table between the two of you. She pushes a carton of something you identify as Moo Goo Gai Pan toward you. "Unless you want me to heat it up."

Sara's glare makes you think better of it. "That's okay. I actually think Chinese food tastes better cold."

This earns an almost-smile from Sara. "Me, too." You fear she’s serious. "Do you want chopsticks, or a fork?"

You look at the sticks Sara holds between her fingers. "I don't sew with a fork," you reply. "I see no reason to eat with knitting needles."

Sara dryly raises an eyebrow, providing you with a fork before lowering herself into the chair that’s furthest away from where you’re sitting. You smile at her anyway, picking at your food. "I'm sorry. I should stay away from quotes."

"You're quoting now?” Sara asks. “I thought that was Grissom's territory."

You figured she’d bring him up sooner or later. "It is," you admit. "He quotes Yeats and Hesse and Shakespeare. I quote The Muppet Show."

Surprise becomes Sara. So does that little smile she’s giving you. "Statler and Waldorf?"

You slowly shake your head. You’re having a hard time believing you two are really having this conversation, but then again, isn’t this whole situation a little bizarre? "I'm afraid she's a little less sophisticated than them," you say. "Miss Piggy."

You sit in silence for a while, chewing your food, until Sara gives you a serious look. "I liked Gonzo."

You’re grinning. "You would."

Sara frowns. "What is that supposed to mean?"

You bring the hand that’s holding your fork up in surrender. "Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it."

You eat, sitting together in silence, the only sounds audible the ones drifting in from the hallway and the humming of the fridge.

"Only that you're both such... geeks."

Sara's jaw goes slack, and for a moment you’re afraid you’ve pushed her too hard this time. Then she says, "I don't know. I think I'd still rather be Gonzo than LVPD Barbie."

You snort, not very elegantly. Consider her comment and feel suddenly lonely, suddenly homesick for missed opportunities.

"LVPD Barbie has lots of pretty girlfriends." You hold Sara's gaze, letting the smile fade from your face. "Whereas the geek just... attracts other geeks."

Sara plays around with the last bamboo shoots left in the carton, the ghost of a frown apparent on her face. You find yourself disappointed when no rebuttal follows. Moth to flame, you muse. You wonder, not for the first time, about the exact moment when Sara and Grissom finally figured things out. Did you play any part in their epiphany? Could this day have been different, if you’d gone about things another way?

 

You fail Grissom a second time. Decide that nothing could possibly be worse than fucking his girlfriend after a particularly grueling shift one Wednesday morning, clothes and strands of hair and long limbs strewn everywhere, planes of freckled skin and her quick, shallow breaths, and anyway, you don’t think Sara needs to be protected from anything. You're in the cramped, dark space that adjoins the interrogation room and watch Sara watch the witness through the glass. The victim's daughter, small, dark, pale, sits across the table from Warrick and Detective Jim Brass.

"I was over half an hour late." The girl laughs, a high, joyless sound, aimed at the wall behind the two men. "I was hoping the evening with Ted would have gotten her in a good mood, so she wouldn't lay into me the minute I walked in the door. But the jerk wasn't even there."

Jim’s voice is quiet, reassuring. “What did you see when you arrived at the scene?"

"I was so mad the bastard hadn't shown up again, especially tonight." Her hands make stretched out fists, then relax again. "All the lights downstairs were on."

Sara is biting her right thumbnail, her eyes fixed on the girl. She’s given no indication at all that she’s even aware of your presence.

"I feared the worst," the girl continues. "That they'd had a fight or something. And then I opened the door and there was someone... it was a stranger, lying on the kitchen floor. Not my mom. And then I pulled the plastic away from her face, and yeah, it was."

The small girl's cool intonation is a little unsettling. You risk another glance at Sara, and feel suddenly cold. There’s an eerie resemblance between the expression on the witness' face and that of the investigator.

It's hard to look away, so you focus on putting one foot in front of the other until you can close the door behind you. Sara doesn't need to be protected. Not by Grissom. Not by you. She can take care of herself, right?

Right.

 

Your phone is flipped open before it finishes its first ring. You’ve been awake since you got home. Blame the moon. Screw the fact that the sun’s been up for hours.

"Are you two still mad at each other?" you ask.

You think maybe you can hear her blink a couple of times. "Huh?"

"Grissom. You." Through the tiny spaces between the blinds, you can see another cloudless morning. The streets will already be sizzling hot.

"Oh." She thinks about this. "I think so. We haven’t talked since 'emotionally crippled'."

You’re not sure whether the fact that you're amused by this guarantees you a clear path to hell, so you try a little harder. "Come have a beer with me."

"Sofia."

"Aren't you thirsty?"

"You know I can't," she rasps. "And if Grissom were here-"

"Grissom isn’t here."

"So?"

"So come have a beer with me."

 

She sits down gracefully on the couch in your darkened living room, raising one slender leg, pulling her knee against her chest. Her hair is damp; she must have taken a shower before heading out, which would explain her being late. Her eyes are so dark they're almost black in this light.

You return from the kitchen with two cans of beer, hand one of them to Sara. There's a small jolt of electricity when the tips of your fingers touch. You sit down in front of her, watching Sara’s eyes as they linger on your hands.

The aluminum is slippery and cold against your skin. You inhale. Take a sip. Take a leap. "So tell me about your mother."

Sara looks taken aback - then cynical. She starts to say something, her lips already parting to let go of the first word, when she suddenly seems to change her mind.

"Fuck it, Sofia," she says. "I've had more counseling than I ever wanted. I don't need your Psychology 101 analysis."

You don’t say anything, but somehow it’s enough.

 

You'd hate to think that this is how it goes, this is what it takes for her to sleep with you, this is what she’ll use to excuse herself from the act later: you both had a little too much to drink. Well, not you, of course. And not her, you don’t think; it's just what she chooses to hide behind, and damn it, who knew doing the right thing could be so exhausting? Today you’ll take whatever you can get. This is today's allowance: her fingers, her mouth. The light floral scent of her shampoo. And her voice, when she comes, when she sobs out your name.

When it's over she turns away from you, but her back – freckled, a little slumped, shoulder blades jutting out a bit too prominently – is nowhere near as hostile when it isn't covered by clothes. Sara breathes, and is beautiful.

"She used to write social commentaries for the local newspaper," she mutters.

You pause, considering this. Listen, and don’t speak, because that’s not what she’s expecting you to do.

"She was always getting way too deep into everybody's business. Annoying the hell out of everyone.” When she rolls onto her back, you can see she’s smiling faintly. "Trying to right wrongs." Her smile turns into a smirk. "Passionate."

You reach out, gently touching your fingers to Sara’s wrist. "Reminds me of someone I know."

Sara meets your gaze, her eyes dark again. "She says I look like him – used to say I look more like him every time she’d see me." She turns her head toward the window. “We haven’t spoken in eleven years."

The moment feels so fragile that you're afraid you’ll break it with anything more than a breath, but you ask anyway. "Your father?"

Her voice is steady and strong when she says, "He’s the one that died that day. Not the ones whose lives he planned to take." Sara’s mouth is a straight, rigid line. "Bastard had it coming for a long, long time."

Your heart is a fist. "I'm -"

"Don't," Sara interrupts you, her voice laced with irritation. "Don't apologize. Please."

You don’t know what to say. What to do. Never had you pegged for such a coward, Curtis, but here you are, ready to hand her over the second things get complicated. "Grissom -"

" - knows. Grissom thinks he can protect me." Sara scoffs. "Grissom thinks a person should be able to put these things behind them."

You know something has shifted when she reaches for your hand and you tell her, "Grissom cares."

But she pretends she hasn't heard you. "Grissom doesn't know me."

 

Ted Killmeyer has been sitting in a holding cell for two days awaiting transport when suddenly it's Monday, and you run into Grissom while you're at the lab looking for Nick. "Sofia," he says, lightly, almost flirtatiously, and all you can think about is how he talked to you about your mother once, about how proud she would be of you, and you flinch. Sara is a ghost in the halls, a pale and fleeting presence avoiding your eyes. You can't see her anymore. God damn it – she cannot have you both.

 

You're on days again, and she must know it, but she calls you at five am anyway.

"It's really early, Sara."

Her voice sounds broken. "I know. I'm tired, too."

Water is running in the background; a faucet is turned off and on, and off again.

"You may be interested to know," she says, "That I’ve been spending some time alone. Like you suggested."

You don't think you understand what she's telling you.

"Sofia?" she asks.

"I'm here."

"Explain it to me, please," she says. "How you do it."

"Being alone?" you ask.

"Not being alone. You said something – something about different possible interpretations, remember?"

You feel your face relax into a smile. "Simple," you say.

"What?"

"We spend some time together."

 

When you round the corner to Hodges' lab you find Grissom there instead, blocking the doorway. "Detective Curtis," he says. "Just the woman I was looking for."

You shuffle through the papers you're carrying, look over his shoulder. "Grissom." Hodges is nowhere to be seen. "Where is everyone tonight?"

"Sara's out in the field with Greg, working on that car crash on the North Strip." You feel his eyes on you.

You smile at him, trying not to look nervous. "I hate this place when it's quiet."

"I hate it when it's not."

He steps aside, inviting you into the lab. You do as you’re told, feeling slightly intimidated in spite of yourself. "Actually, I just need Hodges. And I see he isn’t in, so..."

"He’ll be right back. I just paged him. I only need a minute, Detective."

You turn around to face him, your hands shoved deep into your pockets. "Listen," you say, "I don't think Doctor Robbins will be pleased if he has to deal with another dead body tonight. He's busy enough as it is."

Grissom looks puzzled. Gil Grissom looks puzzled a lot. "I’m not angry at you, Sofia," he says. "Sara’s made her choice."

You look around, squinting your eyes. "Listen, I really need to get back to the station."

Grissom just nods, and so you quickly leave the lab. You imagine you can already breathe easier when you’ve made it out into the hallway.

"Detective Curtis," he says behind you, and you freeze. One of the lab technicians gives you a weak smile as he walks by. "You have my number," Grissom says. "Call me when – call me if you ever need something."

"Yeah," you tell the floor in front of his feet. Your mouth feels dry.

 

Sara doesn't call you anymore. She crawls into your bed now, six, seven in the morning, letting herself in with the keys you gave her last week.

"I know what I want," she says. She presses her fingers to her brow and her body to yours when the night's revelations have left her restless and worn and you're trying not just to understand, but to make it easier somehow.

"Killmeyer confessed," you're able to tell her one morning when she buries her head in your neck. "At least we can consider that case closed."

Her fingers follow invisible paths across your stomach. "I guess we can."

You can, today. You know she knows this. You also know – as Grissom does – that she will always wake up in a cold sweat, no matter who she's sleeping next to, even when a case is cracked and you did manage to save the day, because her father will still be dead and her mother will still be a stranger and nothing you do will ever be able to change that.

You were sure she'd gone to sleep when she mumbles, "You know, for the longest time, they assumed it was her who had tried to cover things up." You can feel her eyelashes against your collarbone when she blinks. "I was no help."

You think you understand. It's the best you can do. "You were very young."

Sara exhales. "I was thirteen years old."


End file.
